Let Go

by Alexandra Winter

  Great. Now I’ll have to answer to this every time I meet them.

  The chef enters from the kitchen, and luckily everyone’s focus changes to him. He is a small man, a few years older than me. He looks wide-eyed at Mom. “I hope everything was to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, yes, it was fine,” Grandfather says. The chef doesn’t leave but waits for Mom’s response.

  “It was lovely,” Mom says. When he still doesn’t leave the room, she adds, “And thank you for not using foie gras from force-fed geese, but the free-range organic liver.”

  The chef beams. “I hoped you’d notice. It’s an honor to cook for such a culinary artist.”

  Grandfather turns to the chef. “I’m sorry, did we invite you to join our dinner?”

  “Of course not, sir.” The chef bows and backs out.

  Dad raises his glass and shoots the whiskey down. I have never seen Dad shoot down anything before.

  “Dad? Are you all right?”

  Grandfather copies Dad. He wipes his mouth and exhales with delight. “Ahh! Of course he’s not all right. He’s broke.”

  Dad sets the glass on the table. “We’re not broke.”

  Grandfather smirks. “Look at me.”

  Dad doesn’t flinch.

  “Look at me,” Grandfather says again in a stern voice, and like turning on a switch to a light, he has Dad’s full attention. I recognize the tone of his voice; Dad uses it on me, and I react the same way, so I flinch too when I hear it from his father. “You know who I am, and as a former bank director, I’m connected to people, important people, and they tell me what I need to know. So, don’t you dare lie to me.”

  “We’re not—” Dad’s cut off.

  “I didn’t say your family was broke, but if you knew how to calculate your business finances like I’ve tried so many times to teach you, you wouldn’t have to rely on your wife to wear the pants in this family of yours. And, I wouldn’t have to hear from concerned friends at the bank that my son is only weeks from having to file for bankruptcy.”

  Grandmother gasps. “I’m sure Hermann would never allow that. There must be another explanation.”

  Mom stares at Dad. “Is this true?”

  I’m holding my breath. Dad doesn’t sell many cars, but it can’t be this bad.

  Grandfather pours Dad another glass of whiskey. “Don’t lie to us! I deserve that much respect. If you’d only listened to me.”

  Dad shakes his head and roars out, “I'm doing my best, but—”

  Grandfather mocks. “That won’t help anyone when your best obviously isn’t good enough! And don’t you dare blame this on me. This is entirely your own failure.”

  Grandmother rises from the table, signaling for Mom and me to leave with her. “Let's leave the men to talk business in peace. We will take our coffee in the drawing room.”

  No, I don’t want to go.

  “Dad? We can stay,” I say.

  But he shakes his head. “Go eat cakes.”

  I want to refuse, but he seems so deflated hunching over the table that I can’t argue with him. So we leave the room and Grandmother closes the doors behind us.

  Grandfather’s voice trails after us. “You should have taken that job in London twenty years ago. You have to be an idiot not to see how embarrassing this is to me.”

  The image of a sheep pops into my head again, this time with Dad’s face on it, but I shake it off. Dad’s not a sheep, he’s a leader, no matter what his father says.

  Grandmother opens the double doors into the drawing room and takes a seat in one of two large armchairs facing the marble fireplace. On a gold table next to her is a framed newspaper article where Dad grins at the camera in front of the sign to Skar’s Auto. It’s from the opening day. If he only knew he’d sit here today desperate to save the business. If only I had known; I could have done more to help him.

  Mom and I sit on the beige sofa to her right, where the city lights glimmer below the house. The cushion is hard, and I want to pull my legs underneath me to get comfortable, but knowing the rules, I straighten my back instead. Grandmother notices the correction and nods approvingly.

  We sit in silence for a while. I can’t make out the words from the men’s muffled voices two rooms away, but I can’t help but try. The word embarrassment stands out, but I can’t make out who says it. Glancing at my grandmother, I can’t think of a single thing to ask her to get the conversation started. She seems to be in the same dilemma. It all seems wrong somehow. She doesn’t work, so I can’t ask about that, and I’m terrified to open any subject about fashion in case she uses the opportunity to truly share what she feels about the way I look.

  Hunting and interior decorating magazines lay neatly displayed on the coffee table. I pick one up and turn to a page on Ilse Crawford, Mom’s favorite interior designer.

  “Mom used her for inspiration when they

  refurbished The Bluebird,” I say.

  Grandmother adjusts the pin on her jacket. “Did she now.”

  I show Mom the article, and she smiles a little for the first time since we left the men in the dining room. “Mr. Jensen, my partner, and I love how she takes into account our five senses in her designs, don’t you?”

  Grandmother folds her hands in her lap. “I don’t see how that will increase a profit, so no. I do not love that.”

  Mom takes the magazine and places it back on the table.

  Grandmother stands up from her chair. “I almost forgot, though. I discussed your interior with Hermann, and he agrees it’s time to update your home, so I took the liberty of gathering some samples for you.” She exits the room.

  Mom ruffles her hair.

  What does she mean by samples?

  Grandmother returns with two bags filled with wallpaper samples and curtain fabrics. “No need to return these. I have great connections in these shops,” she says.

  Mom doesn’t take the bags. “I don’t need…”

  “Nonsense.” Grandmother interrupts her and lifts them from the floor. “I’ll have them placed in your car for you.” She rings a bell, and before Mom or I find the words, a maid has removed the bags from the room.

  Like a screeching sound from a truck braking, Grandfather’s muffled screams pierce through the tense silence. I can’t make the words out, but the anger is undeniable. If Dad ever yelled at me that way, I’d probably pass out. Nobody in our family ever raises their voice, and even though I hear it now, it’s difficult for me to comprehend. Dad has taught me all my life that “If you show anger or sadness in any discussion, you lose.”

  I push myself to stand. I have to know what’s going on, but Grandmother’s voice stops me. It’s louder than before, as to drown out the tension seething in through the shut door.

  “Art school.” She pauses as if tasting the word and finding its aftertaste revolting. “Don’t you find it hard disappointing your father?”

  Her comment is like a slap in the face. “I hope Dad will be proud of me if I do well.”

  She pours her and Mom a glass of Baileys. To my surprise, Mom accepts the glass and places it on the table in front of us. I’ve only seen Mom drink once before, and that was years ago.

  Like a movie before my eyes, I recall being thirteen when Mr. Jensen had given Mom a thirty-year-old wine to celebrate her contribution to The Bluebird. That day, before Dad got home from work, she decanted and poured two glasses, four sips for me and a regular sized glass for herself. “I want to share this experience with you,” she said.

  I remember looking for mildew, smelling for it too. Any other food would have looked disgusting after thirty years, and it was a miracle to me the wine didn’t.

  We spent one hour smelling, analyzing and tasting. I felt so special that day. was like silk on my tongue, and it spread like velvet in my mouth. Mom only had that one glass. She gave the rest to Nana and Grandpa, who still speak of it today as a gastronomic experience of a lifetime.

  Many would think it irresponsible to give wine t
o a thirteen-year-old, but my friends hated her for it. My mother had given her daughter a standard so high for how wine should taste that I never drank anything I didn’t appreciate every sip of. At fifteen, my friends stole liquor from their parents, and every time I turned it down, they told me how stuck-up I was. When they got drunk, I took care of them. Seeing what too much alcohol did, I lost any desire to copy their behavior. After a while, I didn’t see the point and stayed home instead to help Mom with new recipes or work on my art. Dad, of course, thought I was weird not to go out, but Mom supported me. She always does.

  One time when Josefine came to our door to bring me along to a party, Mom lied for me, told her we had a family thing so I could stay home with my paintings and designs.

  Mrs. Skar straightens her back and pours our coffee. Her words knock me out of my soothing memories and right back to reality. “Oh, Amalie! You need to grow up.” Her pinky points to the ceiling as her wrinkled lips latch on to the gold edge of the porcelain cup. Her slurping sound reverberates in the drawing room. “If you want to help your Dad, study economics. Money will make you happy.” She places the cup on its matching plate, aligning the patterns. “Look at me.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but she waves me off the same way Grandfather had done to Dad. She leans forward in her chair, glaring at Mom. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this, Celina. But we have spent enough of our hard-earned money on my son smudging our good name on that dealership of his, so don’t expect us to support this.”

  Where is this coming from?

  “Dad spent his own money on Skar’s,” I say.

  “Well, we paid for his school supplies, he lived under our roof with no expenses demanded of him and had a very pleasant life. So, as you see, we have supported him.”

  I’ve heard Dad speak like this before and told me I need to contribute to the costs at home. Now I see where he gets it.

  Mom sips her coffee and sits back on the sofa, places the small plate on her knee, and cups the mug in both hands. “He’s your son, Aase. Of course, he lived in his home for free.”

  “We sacrificed a lot for him, that’s all. He’ll repay us one day, I’m sure.”

  Grandmother has never worked a day in her life, and Grandfather inherited most of his money from his father’s second wife.

  No help for free in their family.

  The doors to the drawing room open and Grandfather blocks the doorway rubbing his hands together. He looks agitated.

  “My son will stay with us tonight. I'll drive him home tomorrow.”

  Mom gets up from the sofa. Dad sits at the dining room table, his head hanging low, staring at the empty whiskey glass. He turns carefully and nods to her for us to go.

  “Are you sure?” Mom takes a step in his direction.

  “Of course! I need to take charge of my son’s hopeless situation.”

  All evening, Mom’s acted like a shadow of herself, like she usually does with Dad and his family around. But now, Mom straightens her back and tells Grandfather with a clear voice, “With all respect, I didn’t ask you. I asked my husband.”

  When Dad turns to Mom, he has the same empty look on his face as the boy in the family picture in the hall. “Just—Go. I'll be home tomorrow.”

  What is going on? Dad must be desperate for help to stay here.

  How could I have missed this? Tomorrow, I’ll get up early and clean as many of the cars at Skar’s Auto as I can before he returns.

  Before I have time to think, Grandmother escorts us out into the hallway, hovering over us as we put our shoes back on before opening the door to let us out. Outside, dark clouds cover the moon. As I grab the door handle to get into the car, a neighbor strolls past the gate with her black king poodle. Its cotton ball haircut makes me smile. The woman notices and smiles back as Grandmother’s voice rings through the air in a joyful tone. “Well, this has been lovely. I wish you the best of luck with your prestigious school in Spain, Amalie.”

  I turn back to her in time to see the door close on the maid mopping the hallway floors where our shoes stood.

  On the way home, Mom doesn’t speak.

  Neither do I until we cross the drawbridge. “Can I borrow your car tomorrow morning?”

  Mom loosens her tight grip on the steering wheel. “Of course, what do you need it for?”

  “I want to help Dad, so I thought I’d clean the cars again before he gets back.”

  “I’m sure that will please him,” Mom says.

  “I don’t know about those samples, though.” I look back at the two bags placed in the back seat. “Velvet wallpaper?”

  “We can’t use it. Your grandmother means well, but a home is not a museum, and by adding wallpaper that we can’t clean, our home will no longer be a home and a place to relax. I mean, what if someone accidentally spills something? Why on earth she wants us to turn our home into the prison she lives in every day is beyond me.” Mom sighs. “I’m sorry, Amalie. I guess I’m a bit tired, that’s all. Your grandmother means well.”

  I nod, but know she’s trying to convince herself more than me. If she meant well, she’d ask Mom if she even wanted to redecorate, not push it on her. “It’s our home too, not just Dad’s.”

  The rest of the way, we sit in silence. Maybe Mom’s mind is stressed as much as mine about tomorrow. What kind of mood will Dad be in when he returns? I can’t shake the unnerving feeling that this is a changing moment in both his and our lives.

  WHISKEY

  To make sure I don’t look tired when meeting William later today, I’ve set my alarm to seven o’clock this morning. Still, summer is approaching, and at five thirty the sun is up, and so am I. My purple yoga mat catches my attention. I change into yoga pants and a sports bra I can breathe in before pressing play on my app.

  Soothing piano music competes for my attention while I desperately strain to straighten my legs out in down dog. Yoga is new to me, but I’ve tried running to clear my mind, without success. It seems so relaxing in movies, what characters do to de-stress, jogging along rivers and through forests, but my thighs rub together and my boobs hurt too much. Either the sports bras won't give me enough space to breathe, or my boobs jump around like flipper bats in a pinball machine making me feel too silly to go on. Now, trying to control my breathing while having my butt sticking up, I don’t feel any less foolish, but at least, no one sees me.

  The whispering woman’s voice instructs me to gently shift position and sit with my legs stretched out in front of me, grab hold of my calves, and relax my upper body over my legs. As if that is possible. No matter how hard I push my upper body forward, I can’t reach further down than my knees. I glance over at the lean figure demonstrating how relaxing this should be and turn her off mid-sentence. I get in the shower and wash my hair. I want to be prepared for meeting William later, in case Dad asks me to work late. Before driving Mom’s car to Skar’s Auto to begin cleaning, I check the mailbox. No letter. Knowing I’ll meet William, I blast the radio and sing along to every song on my way to work.

  Three hours later, the sun warms my face, and I lay down the power washer, dry off my hands on the towel tied to my waist before holding them up for heat. Rubbing my fingers together, sensation seeps back, and I turn on the washer to continue. Dad has a strict routine for washing cars, and although it takes three times as long to finish, I follow it to make sure I don’t upset him when he arrives. Already I’ve dried off five Porsches and blamed them for his financial struggles. Not even Mom knew about it, and the more I clean, the more curious I am to hear his side of Grandfather’s accusations when he comes home.

  No customers stop by, so at six o’clock in the evening, I rush home to meet William. I pause at my closet. My old favorite red sweater is teasing me from the back of the neatly folded tops. I yank it out and pull it on. Wearing it feels wrong now that Dad’s told me it doesn’t suit me, and although I used to love it, I no longer do. I change into a white long-sleeve and run downstairs to add a scarf and a jacket.<
br />
  On my way to The Bluebird, I check the mailbox; it’s empty as usual. The walk is only ten minutes, but when I get there, William is sitting on a bench out on the harbor, motionless, gazing out on the water. It trickles past only inches away from him; there is no direct sunlight at this hour, but the ripples still sparkle.

  “This view is the best part of living here,” I say, taking a seat next to him, not knowing if I’m referring to the water or him.

  Behind us, the low chatter from the restaurants fills the silence. Moisture in the air cools my skin against the sun-warmed wood beneath us.

  “It’s reason enough to stay,” William says.

  With no letter from DAP arriving, I still have a chance to get the scholarship. It hasn’t registered with me until now, but sitting here, next to William, forcing myself to look at our surroundings reminds me what I might be leaving behind. This is my home. I know every pine tree, the smell of every grass, where to find the best mussels, and every sound the different waves make crashing or gliding into our shore by heart.

  “Or come back to one day.” I look at him, his green eyes, and smile. Is it smart for me to get to know him better? Every time I see him, my smile grows wider and the butterflies in my stomach flutter like crazy. I force myself to look out on the water when all I want is to stare at him, his full lips and the way they move as he speaks.

  William leans back, casually placing his arm on the backrest behind me. “Are you going somewhere?”

  I stare out on the water. “I don’t think so.”

  But I hope to.

  “You think,” William says.

  I pause and take a deep breath. I don’t want to scare him off. “I applied for a scholarship for a design school in Portugal. But getting it would be like winning the lottery twice, so no. I’m not going anywhere.” I get up and stroll along the water. He follows.

  “Good. Would be lovely to know someone here if I decide to move.”